


Volume 5

by StoryCloud



Category: Gregory Horror Show
Genre: Gen, Mystery, Psychological Horror, Unease, first person?, gregory is a spook, things don't go quite as they did before, twist - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-04-29
Updated: 2016-05-04
Packaged: 2018-06-05 06:50:43
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 25
Words: 14,352
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6693871
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/StoryCloud/pseuds/StoryCloud
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In which the Fifth Guest arrives.  “I guess I should’ve warned you – you do look a bit of sight.”</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Night 1

**Author's Note:**

> This idea came to me after re-watching The Gregory Horror Show. A few questions. A few eerie ideas...Thing is, I made this writing more...simplistic than I usually do, but its for a reason. Bear with me? I can change it later on. The Fifth Guest comes after the two in the game and the two in the anime.

A darkened reception. Lamps hanging over a rotting pathway. Between the creaking hooks lay a squat double door. Encrusted in a house, the house flanked by a forest that went on forever, under a dank, starless sky. Walking to the doors.

They open without the coaxing of hands.

“...Ever since that day, I’ve not been myself. But – where am I? Why am I wandering through a forest?”

“...Hello?”

Faintly, though it could be one’s imagination, a cry wanders through the trees.

The world changes through the door. The cold is gone, but it isn’t exactly replaced by warmth. Just a lack of chill. Enclosed space, the quiet – the kind of quiet that hovers in funeral homes, waiting rooms, a house whose owner has only just left. Between hush and silence. A candle lay on an old fashioned holder, hook and all. One had to wonder where such a typical looking prop came from...open book bigger than half one’s body.

_Bam._

_HEAtbEAT races –_

“Oh, I’m so sorry, chum.” A crooning voice, with a subtle hint of age, leering. Droopy, unfocused eyes somehow latching. Big ears, red eyes. The mouse’s nose twitches, smiling smoothly. It doesn’t do well on a crooked snout. “You were so quiet, there. Could’ve been a mouse.” He turns, but remains watching, sliding behind the desk and draping a heavy arm over the book.

“You say you’re tired? Never met someone so eager. Are you quite alright, friend? You look a little jittery. Perhaps some rest _is_ needed.” He scoops up the candle, but his eyes never leave, never waver as he moves to the side. Head turns to follow him, uneasily.

“Don’t worry, my friend. Come along...” He jingles a set of keys. Hadn’t seen him pick them up. He asks no name, writes nothing down, but begins moseying forward. Following now, candlelight sways. The sound of footsteps are the only thing that makes it into the air, but it doesn’t break the silence so much as tiptoes around it.

Down a hall. Rainwater dripping from a faded red raincoat.

“You’re like a drowned rat. Here, let me take that for you –“ The mouse reaches. Then quirks a brow. “No? Very well.” He smiles, again, eyelids narrowing. “I’ll give you your space...” He holds out the candle, gesturing to a room.

The door is already open. No creak. One step, two step, inside. Nice bed, alluringly soft blanket, plain pillow. The window shutters are wood and thicker than one’s hands.

“I would keep those shut, nasty rain out there, my friend...” The mouse calls, with the air of a man speaking spooky tales. Yet no rainwater is heard. A desk, with...

Step away. The mouse draws near, eyeing between dampened, dripping hair and a small, dusty hand mirror, colourful. Painted childishly.

“I guess I should’ve warned you – you _do_ look a bit of _sight_.” He chuckles, inwardly. Chill up the spine. “I’ll take it away...”

He pockets the mirror and begins moving away, back stooped. “You get some sleep now, friend. You are so very tired.”

The bed creaks under the weight, creasing fabric. The mouse turns back between the doorway, hand on the frame, head tilting gently. “Goodnight...” He murmurs, in a sing-song voice, soft as it is...something else...

The door shuts, candlelight cut away. Darkness.

The pillow cuddles the head, blanket wrapped around the body. The freshly clean cloth, yet dust, also...

Sleep.


	2. Night 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which the guest recalls a treat.

“I didn’t think twice about it. But...why would I? No harm done...”

The state between sleep and wakefulness is a hazy one. Whether one is cosy in a four poster bed or slung beneath a cardboard box, it is the most comfortable place in the world during that small period of time. Warmth, warm blankets, but the body is stiff. A shift breaks the silence, eyes focus. A beam of light, murky and dim, peers at the bed-frame from beneath the single door.

Blankets drawn aside. Feet on the floor. Don’t remember removing boots, or socks, for that matter. They linger in the corner, dripping still.

As if seeing the occupant stir, the old fashioned lamps ignite, slowly, into being. Wandering over to the door. Creaking open, just a tad. Empty hallway fading into darkness on either side. Glum wall, faded carpet.

One’s shadow basks on the wall, watching.

Tap. Tap. Tap. Bare feet against the thin carpet. Air sucked in through teeth...

_Slice –_

_Hammering heart._ The world swerves; someone looms, black face, red against that darkness, yet white sandwiching the two. The hallway blurs again, tap, tap, tap, running faster down the hall, around the corner. Huffing...

Turn left, there it is again, dark being clad in white. A giant knife, catching the light, arms fly up to defend, though it would probably carve right though the bone if it wanted to...

But then, a tray. The figure is holding it out with his other hand, circular eyes bright and expectant. The smell if ravishing, mouth-watering, and...familiar. A gasp sounds next. Blackcurrant sugar tarts! A...childhood favourite...

It had been so long.

A hand reaches and plucks one up, and Hell’s Chef tilts the knife to where the lips should be, making a shushing noise. A knowing sound. They taste as good as the memory, sweet and tangy with blackcurrant juice, and chewy crust. The chef offers more, and the hand collects as many as they can carry.

“Fine cuisine.” The Chef remarks, nodding importantly, before ambling off with the empty tray overhead. The candle doesn’t light his way, however, and he disappears into the shadowy hall ahead.

Slinking back to the room now, arms full, holding the warmth to one’s chest as the door is open and closed delicately, so no one will hear.

 _“Blackcurrant tarts?”_ A surprised, reproachful voice chimes.

_Spin._

The mouse is sitting at the desk, chair and all, reading glasses and book sitting on nose and lap. He cocks his heavy head to one side, buggy eyes glinting with malice...and something else, some kind of mirthless emotion lost on one’s knowledge. “Haven’t seen those made around here in a while. Kinda tacky, don’t you think, my friend? Pretty sneaky of you, too. There ARE other guests.”

It’s hard to think of others when you don’t see them around. Assuming things is easy.

“What? You thought they were all for you? Greedy you.” The mouse slides off the chair and saunters by, swallowing a cackle. Twist in the chest. “Me? No I don’t want one, my friend. Don’t guilt yourself. I lost my appetite for tarts long ago...”

He’s in the doorway again; hand on the tin knob, really to pull. “But next time...how about some consideration? You wouldn’t want to be _unpopular_ , would you?”

The door closes.


	3. Night 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which the guest acts quickly, for better or worse.

“...I always hated needles, ever since I was a child. I never understood _why_...I don’t recall much of that time.”

Little nicely dressed beings are ambling around outside the door, with button-up robes and faces darker than midnight. They’re dusting up some oddly coloured glass, shattered against the floor. A fading pink hue glimmers in the lamp light. Through the tiny crack between the barely open door and its frame, it was easy to see goings-on without being seen in return.

The door opens completely when they go. Shadow moves along, hands up, as if to creep, rat to cheese. Tip-toeing along –

A hiss. Twisting around a leg to try and access the damage; tiny pink shard punctuating the bare flesh. Forgot the boots, of course. The little nick is bleeding slowly but surely, thick drops clashing terribly with the faded cherry carpet. “...!”

A titter sounds by the ear. Spinning around, a common feat these days – hours? – and there is the mouse, shaking his heavy head from side to side. “My, my, that looks painful. You really ought to be more careful. Here, I know someone who can fix that right up.”

The shard of glass has been pulled away but the bleeding continues. The mouse gestures lightly towards an ashen face, and the following begins again. The halls stretch on, and the pain only gets worse. Everything juts up and down due to the limp, doors bob, lamps blur.

The mouse looks over his shoulder, quizzical. “You know...you remind me of someone. Oh? You thought I’d tell you? Nosy, aren’t we?”

More walking. Around the corner.

“My name?” A mock gasp of horror, “Silly me! I mustn’t have told you. My name is Gregory, your host.” He smiles back, eyes broadening if a little. He stops at a door, housing the numbers _209._ “I would ask you your name, but I don’t think you remember, do you?” He chortles, slowly, and it quickens as he grasps the handle.

Creak, and it opens.

The scent is overwhelming, terribly, familiar. A sharp turn, heel squeaking against the floor. Air, stale and windless, rushing in sticky-out ears as the halls fly by –

“Come back! H-hey!”

Not as cocky or crooning as before, the mouse is calling, loudly. Back around the corner, onward, onward, to the open room door...but logically, if one was being followed, the assigned room would be the first place they’d look. How did they know something bad was going to happen? They’d seen a hospital cramped into one room, a green curtain, needles bigger than their body hung on the wall like trophies. Familiar.

The door is closed, slammed harder than necessary, but the occupant hasn’t ventured inside. Instead the silent footsteps continue around the next corner, a back presses against the wall and waits. Eying the lines of doors to keep the mind quiet, ignore the hammering heart.

The voices come, and draw closer.

“I must apologise for the nasty fright, I didn’t prepare him well enough...”

“Hmm, the surprise always gets the blood pumping...” A sultry voice purrs, overly enthusiastic, so much so it sends a chill through one’s bones. Too much, too much enjoyment, when nothing is happening. The room door opens, the mouse is going inside, and it’s obvious by the way the footsteps drag lightly across the carpet.

“There, now, my friend, there’s no need to...huh?! Where -?!”

“Omm, what a shame.” The voice hums, breathy, horrible, moving towards the other voice’s location, “But then who will...relieve this needle lf of its sweet healing properties.”

“Ni-ni-ni-no, Not me, I don’t – ack!”

The mouse burst from the room and speed – blessedly –down the opposite hall, and the pink shape follows, cackling loudly, laughter punctuating ever breath. Sore feet carry a shivering body back into the room and close the door, the chair is wrenched under the handle. The blankets make for shabby protection. The shivering doesn’t stop.

The scent of the medical ward had been oh-so familiar, and an experience one would always avoid.

 


	4. Night 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which the guest wanders for a bit.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Detail picking up a bit here. That's intentional.

“...I...should be trying to get home, but...since that day, my drive to do anything much at all has been...lessening.”

The chair is taken away from the door after a while. The tarts, tucked neatly away in the drawer, are going a bit stale, but they’re good just the same. Outside, the corridor is the same as it was before, but a clean check for any remaining glass shards never hurt anyone. Through the hallway, noting each lamp and door, listening for any indication of another guest. There are none.

There. At the bottom of the hall, the outline of another mouse stands, cigarette in hand, tall ears blocking out the wall light. The mouse turns eyelash-flanked eyes to the dishevelled figure a few meters away from them, exhales smoke through their lips, and moves away.

There’s no following this time. Footsteps ring through the hall to the right, not the left, the way the female mouse had gone. The reception again. The first mouse, the old one – Gregory is sitting quietly at the desk, glasses poised on a lank nose and humming absently to himself.

He glances up. “Oh, hello there...I apologise for last night. How’s your foot?”

The question isn’t answered. Then, the mouse is surprised by the inquiry that comes to him. “Hmm? What am I reading? Oh...” He seems taken back, but elaborates all the same, “Well, just some drama nonsense, a guilty pleasure if you will. Like one of those soap operas, really – a man’s life not going too well, running from problems. Something tells me you would like to read it....”

He’s smirking, eyes narrowed, that clever chortle ready to rumble in his decrepit chest. But then his posture changes. Purple eyes blink. “H-huh...you would like to read it? W-well, I’ll be sure to hand it to you when I’m done. Seems we have a lot in common, my friend.”

Head turns, body pivots, back to the room. The bed covers aren’t welcomed, neither is the patron. Ear muffled against pillow, mind blank. Staring at the desk, the tightly sealed shutters.

The urge to escape is a fickle thing. By now it’s obvious that this world is no ordinary dream, for it has been going on too long and there’s only so much a person can say to reason it away. The bed crackles as the body turns to face the wall.

The door wasn’t closed properly. Then, a voice drifts by.

“Do you know...?”

The bed creaks.

“Who I am...?”

The door opens a tad more, nose poking out, attentive. All the lamps dotting the hallway – all of them were out. The scent of snuffed out candlewicks still linger in the air. A new glow is brimming in the far corridor, drawing nearer, steadily, like quiet train lights...

A being slides by, grating the ceiling like a crane on a rail. Two cages hanging on arms like scales; weighing a heart, and a money sign. Bright colours, black outlines around dot eyes. Sharp teeth flashing as the lipless mouth moves, repeating the words that a more of a chant than an actual tune –

“Do you know, who I am, they call me Judgement Boy...”

And he goes by. A he, judging by that voice. Vanishing into the hall opposite, into the darkness. Again, the lights do nothing to light the way ahead. It swallows him up.

“It isn’t polite to stare.” Slimy voice.

There’s Gregory, book tucked under one arm, candle holder poised in the other. He’s smiling that seedy grin again, moving closer. The door creaks again, the gap between the frame shrinking. The mouse chuckles again, “Oh? Don’t be afraid, friend. Here...” He holds out the book.

A clammy hand reaches, and takes it. It smell of dust and it’s worn like the books in many a second hand library.

“I hope you enjoy it, my friend. You look like you need a distraction..hmhmhm.”

And he ambles off, rickety laughter ringing in smaller ears.


	5. Night 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which the guest walks into a bar.

“...I hated it when people asked me what was wrong. What wasn’t wrong about that situation?”

There are no clocks in these halls, the stairs all look the same. Enclosed, quiet, shadowy. Something about it is...comforting. Non exposed, if you will. A double door entrance opens, and basking in the candle light is a bar, oddly bright compared to the rest of the house. Little stools and tables gather around it, a piano in the centre, with no tune and no player. Several figures lay about the chairs; two little dark beings sharing drinks with pink straws, someone whose face is planted on the counter.

Glass gleams behind the bar, taps and unknown substances. A mishmash of stone-wood floor clashes with bare feet again, wandering over, bobbing up with uneven steps. Foot ache spreading to the ankle; sitting on the stool is a relief.

“My friend!”

And there’s Gregory, beaming lazily over the counter, running a gnarly finger along the lip of an empty glass. “Didn’t take you for a drinker, though with someone as – jittery as you, I suppose a depressive _is_ required.”

A hiccup to the left. There’s a dog-like being strewn in the seat, and another circular one with pink-purple skin.

A shudder.

The former’s forehead is dribbling with...

The hiccup came from the other creature, who is now sitting up, eyelashes and pips signalling femininity but a moustache and huffy voice signifying a man. He stares, eyes focusing, bloodshot. “Well...pleasure to meet you, sir.” He swallows his own breath in another hiccup.

“Oh?” He glances at the dog-creature. “He’s fine, had one too many. First night with such beverages, you understand.”

“Trying new things is all very well.” Gregory hums by one’s ear, as if gossiping, his voice lies low, “Though for some people it’s a bigger risk. Not the most fatherly thing to do, go out and get _loaded_.”

Head turns. Gregory tilts his head. “What? You think I’m being too harsh? Do you know something about getting a bit carried away...?” The mouse is cut off, staring as a thin, clammy hand, callous, familiar, reaches out.

“...Impatient.” The mouse titters, and he pulls out a glass from beneath the counter. Strong blue liquid glimmering in the lank light. The glass tips. Gregory isn’t even done speaking yet.

“A new specialty of mine...”

It tastes like...

It clogs in the throat, burning. But it’s finished, no going back. The mouse cocks a brow, “Don’t like it? Well, here you go, my boy. Better with something older, safer...” He’s holding out another drink, the room shakes, left right, left right.

“No...?” The rodent purrs. “What’s the matter, don’t you trust me? If not, how ‘bout we hear from a fellow?”

The man with the clock in his face speaks, nodding lopsidedly, “Best thing on the shelf...really takes you back...not as good as I ever did, mind you...” He’s flopping onto the counter again. A shaky hand reaches out. Gregory’s smile stretches.

“That’s the _spirit_. Heheheh.”

Staring down at a faded brown liquid, oddly familiar in sight but not in taste. Sight brims, blurs, leaking down cheeks, warm, bitter and painful.

Gregory is speaking again, and once more, he sounds taken aback.

“My friend...whatever is the matter?”

The liquid swims elegantly down the throat. Vision blurs, not from liquid, behind the eyes it stings. The stool is above now, the floor rushing up.

“Dearie me...I was right. You’re not a drinker at all.”


	6. Night 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which the guest tries to help.

“...I...I...that drink. It made me see things. They couldn’t be. I refuse...that’s not what happened.”

_A graveyard. The tombstones loom above, everything is taller than it was before...or it is nowadays. Mist hovers above the nose, damp air and dank soil biting the feet. Hands clawing at the dark, trying keep upright. Ragged breath, out of air,_ _trying – must – get away. Huddling behind a gravestone as the light comes closer, there's a voice calling out. So many people before had done this, hidden here in the cemetery, the game played so many times, but this time it’s..._

_No longer just watching. Playing the game._

_“Where ARE you? It’s no use playing around anymore...come back here!”_

_Lantern creaks._

_Mouse squeaks._

_Coming closer, inch away. Back, slowly, slowly._

_“Come out, come out...you must be here somewhere! It’s late.”_

_Soft, light voice turns ragged, near vicious. “Come here!”_

_Light shines over, blinds, catching, body rigid, skin frigid, no, no, not again._

_“There you are. It’s all right.”_

...

The footsteps stop. Breath is heavy, painful stitch forming in the chest muscle. How long had the running gone on? Mindless sprinting through these halls, half awake. Drenched again, not in rain, but sweat this time.

Then, soft sobbing. Head veers. A small figure is wandering into one’s midst, pigtails flopping, eyes streaming with tears. The cold vanishes. Kneeling down, everything shortens, offering a hand.

The little girl raises her head. “I lost my dolly. I want my dolly. Where are you?”

That wouldn’t do. Murmuring, words well rehearsed, from knowing lips. The doll will be found. And hand takes hand, turning to lead to the way without second thought. Not much litters these halls, it would be easy to find –

The touch burns. Turn, turn now – the little girl is gone, the face is blue, cackling, loud, and the noise hurts. Bones go weak, body hits the floor. Head reels.

It tears around up above, smashing the lights, leaving it dark. It flitters away, screeching, and vanishing.

Then, the candle light returns, hovering overhead. Gregory titters softly, shaking his head. “Too nice for your own good. Aren’t you just Mr Nice Guy? She’s the doll she’ll never find, not much you could’ve done. At least you didn’t _run away. ”_

He almost sounds disappointed. Was one supposed to run away from that drink? From the girl? Games aren’t worth playing. Let the drinks come.

Gregory offers a hand. It is taken, and one is lead this time, back to the room. “Here you go...my friend.”

Bitterness, almost, in his voice now. Gently shoving the small of the back, into the room, and closing the door.


	7. Night 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Tonight is both good and bad.

“...I just want to forget. Why won’t it stay away...?”

...

“Oh my _fri-eeeend?”_ The word is stretched, like the last note of a song through really it should be the bridge. The door is open, and light pours in. No clock, again, no way to tell how long this bed has house this body, how long this salty-smelling pillow has been cradling a stiff head. The mouse is shaking his head, tittering again, tongue slicking loudly against buck teeth.

“This simply won’t do at all, will it? You need something to keep up your strength.” Sitting up now, reluctantly. Gregory draws nearer, gesturing behind him. Finger curling, calling someone in. Head turns.

_Heartbeatheartbeatheartbeat._

The bed springs shriek. But the old mouse blocks the way, candle burning bright enough to make one reel as the pink skinned lizard slides in, needle poised and gleaming, chest heaving with inward laughter, “Now, now, my friend, this is for your own good.” But then he’s laughing, louder, making no attempt to hide it, turning away towards the window, hands clawing at the shutter edge but it doesn’t give away. Hands seized shoulders, wrench back, needle above.

Begging.

“Oh, my friend. You were so accepting before, why fight now?”

“Hmmhmm, such fast, healthy blood.” The lizard is swooning, practically leaning on the needle though it hovers above the flesh, giving no stability, can’t see the liquid but it’s there – “Mixes so well with my _serum_...it’s been a while since I had such durable samples. Maybe I ought to take some after this...”

“Don’t overdo it, Catherine...” Gregory chimes, holding fast to the shoulders. The needles dives in. The serum is ice cold, ice cold, goes to the brain and all thoughts stop.

“We all have to face the inevitable, my friend...it’s much worse the longer we leave it.” Their faces are hazy, blurring, twisting out of shape. Tongue flies from pink lips, humming delightedly.

“What’s that you’re saying, dearest?” The pink lizard croons, breathily, breath on one’s face, hot and horrible and smelling of cherry. “Not again?”

“Poor man’s delirious...”

Falling to the floor once again.

When wakefulness returns, it’s as if it never happened. The covers are draped over a shivering shoulder, palms and brow sweaty. There’s a knock at the door, rat-a-tat-tat, clenched fists swing towards it and wrench it open...

There is the Chef, holding a tray, with eggs and bacon. Very oddly shaped eggs and bacon, with polka dots littering each one. But there’s a tenseness in the air, yet warmth, too, and it would rude to refuse and it’s easy to assume that doing so would lead to...consequences. Walking on eggshells – so to speak – the hands clasp the tray. The world bobs up and down during the nod. “Enjoy your meal, for it will be the best.” Chef assures, tapping his knife on the door like one would do when knocking on wood. Without sitting down the fork is seized. The bacon is delicious, though the spots are worrying, the eggs aren’t the least bit running and –

Eyes widen. The Chef nods, knowing again, and saunters off, knife over his shoulder, completely aware that he’d sprinkled blackcurrant jam sneakily over the dish. The candle-headed man is gone after a moment, and another bite is taken.

“Hm hm hm.”

Gregory is there, in the hall, holding the candle and watching. Always watching. The inward chuckle is brief. “You knew exactly what to do to keep him happy. You don’t _know_ each other, do you?”

One hand holds the tray. The other shuts the door. Gregory’s eyes widen before the wood slides to block him out.

_Clunk._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This idea is still going, though it probably won't be read. It grew in my brain.  
> I doodle a little image of the Fifth Guest, and Gregory, for Reference. http://storycloud.deviantart.com/art/Gregory-and-the-Third-Guest-606226674


	8. Night 8

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Judgement...now.

“...I know who I am. But did I know...who I _was_...? Ever since that day – I’m starting to remember.”

Standing around in a room all night – day – whatever term was used for the passage of time, here, was rather redundant. The dirty dishes lay on the desk, crumbs left by the now long gone tarts scattered over the wood. The scent hasn’t quite faded, and it brings comfort. One could almost say they didn’t want to leave this room.

But then the voice comes, its wandering down the hall, cutting clean and sharp through the quiet. A familiar rhythm, a familiar chant. A creak, and the door is opening despite the misgivings. But where is he? The lights aren’t coming down the usual way –

“Do you know _, who I am -?”_

_Behind._

Grating metal, coming to a halt, the creature hovers above and the chains clink to a stop. A sharp grin broadens, eyes fall, sharp and intelligent, upon the unkempt patron below. “Judgement.”

The voice begins, assured, baritone, like many people’s, oddly familiar in tone. “You’re in high school. You have a chance to win a scholarship and travel the world, but your old parent falls ill and needs you to stay and look after them. Now...”

Gold and pink, a glass heart, a crystal dollar sign, gleaming, not dim or dull but bright. The heat falls in skin, hairs standing up.

“Which will you choose?”

Heart twists, tongue ties, blocks in the brain form.

The red face’s eyes narrow, a violent spark flickering between pupils. The creature’s voice is snide. “I see. You say you’ll stay behind to care for your parent. You know what I say?”

No.

“I say we should consult the balance of truth.”

One sees.

Unease.

The creature’s arms begin to tip, one side to the other like a seesaw, creaking loudly. One could almost feel the bending in their bones. “Your heart tells you what to do, but your mind tells you what to say. You stop your heart from speaking so that no one will see what it is.

Back and forth, the swaying turns precarious; the glass heart is bobbing against the bars. Caged.

“But inevitably, _the truth comes out.”_

He spins, suddenly, the air whirls around him in a gust, the closest thing to wind this place has to offer. Hair flies back, eyes water, and the creature calls –

“Judgement – Now!”

He slants to one side. The cage opens, the heart falls. The smash makes the body start, the breath catch in the windpipe. But all is quiet.

The lopsided creature hasn’t ceased to smirk. “You leave for the scholarship, and your parent dies alone. It was your choice.”

The pieces remain where they are. Staring, staring down.

“You get to live with it.”

A rigid turn, and the creature rolls away, resuming his song. If it can be called that. Knees press against the carpet; shaky figures pick up the pieces.

“Hmm...Maybe you’re not as nice as I thought you were.” A familiar voice crones from behind. The glass sings, sadly, with each crinkle, as each peace is collected one by one. A little pile on the palm of a hand...

“Then again...depends on the parent.”

Fringe falls before the eyes as the head turns. Gregory is regarding the scene with only a half-smile this time, shrugging offhandedly. But then the grin seeps back in. “Think you can fix it after you made the choice? Nothing’s gonna clue that back together, my friend. Some things are _permanent_.”

Standing, careful not to drop the pieces. Watching feet, toes, moving across the floor, head mute and bent. Into the room. Door closes, without looking back.

“Goodnight, my friend.” Gregory coos quietly from outside, before chuckling, and resuming his walk.

 


	9. Night 9

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Play ball.

“People say I’m not good at hiding my emotions. If only they knew...”

Their voices are heard, but the owners aren’t seen. Footsteps pad along the corridor, through the house, under the staircase. Shadows on the wall where a new hall breaks into this one. The feet stop just before the wall cuts off, hiding them away. Someone is speaking, someone with a light voice, a child’s.

“Our new guest looks real depressed, huh?”

Is it really that obvious? One gets the notion not to intrude. Heel turns, back the way, past the candles dripping wax and the song of creaking floorboards. Slow and aimless, for a time. Then, the next hallway comes into view, blurring in as the candles grow a little fresher.

“Hmmm...mh-mh. Hm.”

A small figure is wandering back and forth, muttering and humming absently to themselves. Big ears stand on floppy hair, a familiar shape. A little mouse turns to face the patron opposite them, and he wanders closer, peering up, tilting his head curiously.

“Hey, Mister, you look beat. Heh.”  The little boy circles around, leaning to one side as if to try and peak under the fringe to see the face hidden beneath. He fails. “Wanna play with me?”

He blinks. “Huh? You’re a good guy but I should more careful? Don’t worry so much, Mister.” He shrugs, grinning toothily, and begins hopping around. “I’m bored!”

A small ‘bop’ sounds behind. Turning. A little ball sits on the floor, perfect for a game of catch. Bitten nails, worn hands scoop it up and bounce it once against the floor, with the air of one who knows this game all too well. The little mouse’s eyes light up.

“Yay! Ha- ha, play ball!”

The hands throws the ball down, just enough force, and it soars overhead. The little mouse dives back and catches it narrowly, making a show of winding his arm back to toss it fro. The balls flies, fast, a stumble, but a quick clumsy catch. The boy laughs.

Again, back and forth, a sneaky hit against the wall so it bounces diagonally down the hall. The little mouse turns and darts after it, “No fair!” He cackles. Following the mouse again, something bubbling in the chest. Is it laughter? It was so familiar, but it didn’t hurt.

Corner turns, little mouse has the ball again, hopping up and down on the spot. “My turn, my turn!”

Hands rise to catch, ready. The little mouse bounces the ball down once, twice, and then it’s speeding forward –

Goes overhead, speeds into the darkness...and something smashes. Chest tightens. The little mouse lifts his hands to his face, “Uuuh ohh...” But he sounds on the verge of a chortle.

A chortle...

“AYE AYE AYE!”

Something soars out of the darkness. Turning, quickly, the little mouse is gone, down the hall he’s grinning back, shoulders shaking in a silent laugh. Another small blur whisks out of the black, singing and snapping. One doesn’t need to be a genius to know a bullet just grazed their hair.

Both feet kick off the floorboards, hurting forward, down the hall, the stairs, as the gunfire showers the hall behind. Faster, faster, corner, so many, everywhere looks the same. Bursting through a double door into a dining room, barely lit. Rapidly yelling behind, someone had seen a whisk of pale hair vanishing through the door.

No time.

Into the small door. Storage room, dark, the smell of bread and milk and oil hovers around. Heart hammers, breath thick, as the furious stomps draw near the door.

The scent of gunpowder.

“Aye, when I find the _idiota_ who threw it, I’ll shoot their toes off!”

Outside the door.

“Where you go?!”

The thick accent doesn’t quite make it through the door. The light stomps grow near – then slide by. Fading.

Soon, there is no noise.

The storage room door stays shut for a long while.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Still writing...


	10. Night 10

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which the guest breaks down.

“...I can’t stop thinking about him. Ever since that day, I’ve...never gotten over it. I never will.”

Staring at the wall. Head on pillow, eyeing the decaying paint. Stifling a yawn. It’s darker, darker than it has ever been in the hotel – though that was strange to say, coming from someone who’d spent...how many nights? Over a week at least? Counting the times of darkness, the sleeps between each event, didn’t qualify as a good way of date keeping. The bed creaks, gently, as the body turns over. Staring into the darkness. Fatigue is there, but the mind unwilling to sleep.

Though it just wants to disappear. The candles in the hall are all out, apparently, if the place wasn’t kept alight by flame one would’ve said it was like a power outage. And it was cold. Central heating down, too? No fires lit in vacant kitchens...

Then, soft music. Chiming through the dark. Head rises, listens, ears prickling. Light is sweeping slowly, faintly, down the hall. It peaks through the underside of the door. Pale blue.

Hair is floating upward. Movement grows slow. Hand rises; it looks blurry, distorted and waving like...like its underwater. Looking up. There’s the surface. They’re underwater. It just occurred, really. But there’s still air pumping through the lungs and everything is still very, very visible, if a little...wonky.

The door ripples. Something flies through, as if it were no more than a reflection. It slides – swims in, - bright bone moving elegantly and subtle. A fish. But there’s a TV set where the head shoulder be. Static. Buzzing.

Drawing away, moving back against the wall.

_“Dad?”_

_Heartbeat. Skin stretching on brow and face._

What?

“Hey, Dad, did you miss me?”

Static blurs. Fair, floppy hair, bright eyes, sneaky grin. Hand in the cookie jar, waving. “Daaad!”

The fish circles above. Stomach turns.

So much blue.

It darts through the door. Sounds of splashing water. Up, out of the room, door swinging. In the hall, left right, where...?

Down the stairs. See if moving, drifting, glowing. It stops and turns, head tilting, face buzzing in and out. Black, static, then –

_“Why can’t you see that I’m suffering, too?!”_

Down. Falling to sit on the steps, no longer perusing. The image blurs, then the water, the azure hue, all of it fades. Hands grip skin, hair, left right, shaking from side to side.

There is nowhere to run, to chase, for there’s nothing to go back to. Stinging. So, so tired. A hand falls on one’s shoulder, turning them almost gently. There’s Gregory, candle in one hand, eyes lidded. There’s barely a smile this time, and though there’s a mockery in the sullenness, it’s there all the same.

“Come, my friend...” Standing up, head bent, lank hair falling to mask the jaw. The old mouse pats the patron’s shoulder, leading them along with his free arm, back to the room.

It is easy, when they do not put up a fight.

 


	11. Night 11

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Invitations are always nice.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I M on A sPrEe....

“...I just wanted to fade away. I...I miss my son.”

Staring at the all again, a little corner, refuge from the world. Not really. This isn’t a refuge; there isn’t much of a world. The candlelight blooms, swaying from side to side in a nonexistent breeze. Picking at nails already bitten back to the quick. A tired sigh slides into the air. Someone knocks at the door. There is no movement.

_Knock, knock, knock._

Not moving.

_Knock, knock, knock._

Impatient knuckles ratting on wood. A slow exhale through the nose, and a pair of feet are swung over and the handle is taken. One glances at the room; damp boots, red raincoat strewn over the desk. The door is opened, an inch. A familiar figure stands; one is almost tempted to shut it again as slowly as possible for added effect. But a pair of eyelash-adorned eyes, matching in focus, and a mirage of cigarette smoke signal that it _isn’t_ the older mouse.

The woman takes a slow, deliberate drag, watching reproachfully. “...I don’t think we’ve met.”

Left, right, the head shakes.

“Hmm. I work here, hired help, or something.” She doesn’t sound all that bothered by the fact she doesn’t know her own position. She breathes out, smoke floating past her lips. Her calmness feels misplaced, really. The mouse woman steps to one side, “Anyway, Gregory told me that James here got you into trouble.”

James...?

Ah. The little mouse is peering around her skirt, beaming crookedly. Ah. “This is his grandson. Guess I wasn’t the only one who didn’t see it at first.”

The last is a lament, a mutter. Confusion bubbles, but then the little mouse is trotting forward, arms out, “I uh...didn’t mean to get you into trouble, Mr.”

A hand reaches out and pets his head.

“Oh, you forgive me? Huh.” The little mouse seems taken aback. Family resemblance.

“Good with kids, from what I heard.” The woman says, evenly, leaning against the door pane. “Gregory invited you to dinner to make up for it...” Something in her tone signals a ‘but’ ...and yet she doesn’t continue. James grins,

“Yeaah. Grandpa said it would be extra special.”

The woman glances over. “Hm? You don’t feel like it? I wouldn’t refuse. Chef might hear.”

Point taken.

“We’ll see you there. Tomorrow night.” The woman is walking away, slowly, apparently quite accustomed to the child dancing circles around her and chortling. Her gait doesn't waver. Something about her is...strange. She looks back, staring, watching, some sort of resignation littering the eyes. Knowing. Always knowing, all of them.

Door closes. Head falls to stare at toes, reddened and sore. Boots still dripping as if fresh out of the rain.


	12. Night 12

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dinner is...eventful.

“...Everything’s a haze, between past and future. I didn’t know they could...merge in such a way.”

Sitting on the bed, head in hands. The nightmare hadn’t been vivid, nor had it forced the harbourer to wake. Like most nights, sleep had simply faltered, dissolved, hazy and restless memories drifting in and out. Dragging fingers softly down cheeks, brushing aside straight pale hair. Wasn’t there something to do tonight? Ah, yes. Invited to dinner. Mixed feelings. Frightened, of course, anything could happen in this hotel, this...place. At the same, time, though...

“You’re really gonna go, huh?”

Spinning around. But whoever had spoken wasn’t visible. Running tongue along a set of uneven teeth, the door is opened. Left, right. The hall is empty. None of the doors lay open, and nothing is left to indicate anyone had been active in the past few moments. How odd.

The voice had been high, but something about it said ‘male’. But not a child’s. How strange...

Somewhere, a clock chimed. But, again, the thing creating the noise wasn’t available to the eye. Right. Invited to dinner. Down the stairs, watch out for that strange pink stain, stepping cautiously onto the ground floor. During a high-speed run, the kitchen had gone by in a whirl. It would’ve been smarter to ask where it was beforehand...

But the gut had a feeling. Left. Right. Past windows brimming with soundless lightning. Doorway. Clammy hand reaching out, pushing it by, already open by a crack. Candles light the chamber; of course, there isn’t much of a reception. Several figures sit at the table, though it could easily house a dozen. All mice, all three.

Gregory’s lopsided eyes slid over. “My friend.” He purrs, cheerfully, “So glad you could come. Hm hm.”

The woman sends him a reproachful look. Closer, stepping uncertainly. Gregory nudges a seat out. Opposite him is James, building a castle out of forks, knives, and several plates. Must have been stolen from the unoccupied part of the table.

“Please, my friend, don’t be a stranger.” The old mouse chimes. The seat is taken after another moment’s hesitation. James diverts his attention to the new arrival.

“Heya, Mister. I’m makin’ a castle fort. Huh?” He squints. Then he laughs. “Yeah, I’m the mouse king!”

An exhale. Turn. The mouse woman is sitting back, smiling mirthlessly, a casual, indifferent note to her face and voice. “Lover of literature. Maybe you’ll last after all.”

“Indeed. Hn-hn.” Gregory’s chuckle sounds...off. He’s watching, as he always is, but watching even more if possible. The lazy purple eyes never leave, they follow. Mice and following were going hand in hand nowadays. Nights.

The door in the corner opens. There is the Chef, balancing several steaming trays, one on head, brimming under the candle heat, one on either arm. Red eyes gleam. “Fine cuisine has been prepared for you. I await compliments for the Chef.”

“Food! Gimme, gimme!” James hopping up and down on his seat, the woman appearing rather passive about the meal, Gregory taking his stare away for a split second to try and calm the mouseling.

“Now, James, sit down and –“

Hell’s Chef scowls, holding the tray up overhead. He passes by, places a plate down between clammy hands. The fork is gripped with uncertainty, but before the food is even glanced at the head is swerving up to look at him.

“It is fine to see you again, too. Enjoy.” Hell’s Chef drawls, before turning away.

Looking down at the plate now –

The fork pauses.

It’s a pale blue fish. Blackcurrant jam.

Gregory is watching, chuckling inwardly and quiet. “I thought you might appreciate it, My Friend.”

Look away.

Look away.


	13. Night 13

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which the guest hesitates.

“...Everything is inevitable, isn’t it? ...I find it hard to care. The worst is already over for me.”

There was only so much one’s temper could take after the night before. It brimmed near the surface tonight, from the moment the candles alit and the slumber ceased. It was quiet. Quiet than the usual quiet, that is...

Head shaking, aching, nibbling on the skull. Hands clench and unclench –

And the door is exploding. Splinters fly by, overhead, past rapidly narrowing eyes. Torn between terror and something close enough to annoyance to be deemed as such. But there is no dim hallway, and blessedly no pink nurse. No, there is a man shaped like a cactus, storming into the room. Something whips up, a barrel of a gun, nudging against a sweating forehead.

_“You!”_

That accent. Oh no.

“Aye-aye, You were the one who tried to make a _bobo_ out of me!”

Ah.

“Stand, cobarde! Stand and fight me face to face, man to man.”

Sliding off the bed as something is tossed at a pair of roughened feet. A gun, oddly shaped, strangely like that of a musical instrument. It stays where it is. Above the moustache, the cactus man’s eyes blaze.

“Don’t scowl at me ** _! Imbécil!”_**

A gust of wind, and the room is gone. It appears the entire hotel is gone. The sun burns, stings at the eye, the air is dry and fills the throat with dust. Hands raised to shield one’s face. Through pale fingers, now standing many yards away is the Cactus Gunman, wielding a gun.

He points.

And a clammy hand reaches, snatches the other gun off the desert floor, a quiver in the wrist, but firmness in the fingers, familiar, familiar, point it right back at him without hesitation...

But the trigger isn’t pulled.

The gunman’s eyes widen. The weapon shakes. Rattling. Grip tightens, then it is pulled away, down to the chest, staring down at the gun. Vision blurring.

BANG.

 _...Headhurtsheadhurts...feel nothing. Tipping back. Blue sky._ Dust crackling beneath the body, when it slams to the floor. The sky is turning red. Something warm was dribbling onto the sand.

A bolt, a haze of green and brown. The room is back. Blankets tangled, drenched in a cold sweat, over quivering legs. Had it been a dream? A hand lifts, feeling, comes away wet –

“You really need to be more decisive. You can’t just sit on the fence... That gunshot was going to come whether you wanted it to or not. Hm-hm-hm...”

Past the bloodied hand is Gregory, peering into the room, candle hovering between the hall and doorway, lighting it up like stolen sunlight. He cocks his head to one side, tongue clicking against his teeth again. “Or...were you expecting it to be over? Didn’t you _want_ to live? Hm-hm-hm!”

Hand quivers. Curls into a fist. Bones almost crack from the tightness. Anger, almost there. Hadn’t been felt for so long.

Then, the spark fades. The cold shoulder is given, the almost- burning inside evaporates, leaving behind a familiar exhaustion. Head flops back against the pillow, facing away. The mouse must still be there, watching.

One doesn’t need to care.


	14. Night 14

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Unwanted memories.

“It hurts so badly. The pain is as raw as that day.”

Wandering. Always wandering these halls, loosing tracks time. Head bent, shoulders swaying, quiet as a mouse. Head turns. Something is making a sound, soft, chiming like a bell. Curiosity wavers and the sound is tailed, followed, to a door. Green wood, dyed by paint or rot, who knows. Fingers spread over the handle, and twist. Another hall. The door swings, gently. Blackness stretches onward; there’s something lopsided. An eerie glow of green lingers between the floorboards.

Heart beating in chest and head. Something makes the legs move forward. The door closes with a snap. Breath catching.

Onward. Clunk. Clunk. Heavy steps on faded floorboards. Shaking, shaking. Every eve, he’d heard sounds. Noises in the night, mewls and misplaced laughter, genuine happiness so mismatched to this world that it came into being as eerie as the rest of it. The quietness here, however, beat them all. From either side...something moved.

Not something. Many things. Dark eyes slide back and forth, taking it in. Pendulums, pendants, swinging back and forth, to, fro, to, fro, none in unison. Its discord. And it’s terrible. The pendulums swing, catching the murky green hue glimmering between the floorboards. The light dances around them. Again, and again.

And, each of them, bearing a reflection. Metal and glass disc hanging from unseen clocks and wind chimes, other things of...that nature. The same face stares back a hundred times over. Both brows lift, lines under eyes.

 Written there because of the exhaustion, not the age.

The reflections are gone. What...no. In their place, images flash, sliding across, bouncing from surface to surface. Pictures. Voices. Rippling.

The closest. “ _Don’t you understand how much this hurts me? How can you be so selfish, how can you just turn away?! How can you leave me?!”_

Walking. Walking faster, breath hitching. Head bent, hair falling, faster. One of them swings in front, cutting off the route –

  _“D-Daddy...don’t let me go alone. Please, Daddy? You promise?”_

Sorry. So sorry.

Quicker. Further. Getting darker, but the light still bounces, the images keep appearing on the swinging trinkets, in and out across the path. Ducking away, arms rising, a gasp, a broken yelp. They move like rolled up newspaper, swatting at a fly. Not to kill, but to lead, to _corner_.

Further. Further back.

The sound of bells, a wail. The hall is getting broader, the lights are getting fainter, but they remain. Blurry pictures, muffled voices.

_SLICE –_

rIGht BY theEAr...

The side of the swinging watch nicks the skin.

“ _Come back here! There’s no use hiding – I’ll find you...come out...Hmm? Are you **there?** Come here...I promise, I’m not going to hurt you! I wouldn’t ever hurt **you** , didn’t I promise?”_

A figure turning in the dark, clutching a candle, searching, seconds away from finding. Foggy image reflecting off the surface of the watch. Its arms spinning crookedly backwards.

Cr-a-ck.

The watch is hit. It strikes the floor, and smashes into bits. Gears, clogs, they all spring from inside, scattering about the floor in a rickety mess. Even then the sounds don’t leave for another few moments.

Then, there is only the heavy breathes, and the raging heartbeat. The candles relight. That corridor is gone. Their room’s hall lay ahead once more, as if it never happened.

 


	15. Night 15

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Tempers are rising.

“...S-something is wrong. I was content with my fate before, but –“

The guest door is left completely shut. Instead the figure darts forward, leaving it behind, turning the corner. The reception room, waiting room, whatever they call that part of the hotel – _lobby_ – must be around here somewhere. Had to leave, right now. A rare burst of passion, an unusual surge of blood carries the body into the desolate hall. The couches, candles, chairs, the clock ticking overhead, and the booking desk. Gregory isn’t there. Perfect.

Striding over to the door, breath quivering, hands seizing the cold metal doorknobs and yank. The bolts hold firm. Locked. The leg goes up, foot jamming against one of the double doors so more pressure can be put on the other, pulling, pulling, muscles aching –

“Hm-hm-hm.”

_HeAd SweRves._

Turning, slowly, to face the rat, a bead of sweat rolling down an ashen brow. Gregory is standing a yard behind, candle in hand, a smirk growing slowly and subdued across his face. “Going somewhere?”

Turning, slowly, fingers flexing, stiff and tense. The air is thick with it, really, the mouse isn’t smiling anymore. How hard would it be, really? The mouse is old, can’t be much of a fighter. Eyes slid towards the keys hanging behind the desk. With unusual boldness, the walk begins, storming towards the hook on which they hand –

Gregory stands in front, cutting off the route, free hand raised to block the way. “I must ask you to refrain from touching those, my friend. Don’t make this _difficult...”_

A step back. Then, a quick bank to try and get around him. Gregory’s eyes widen and to his credit he waves the candle to the left, trying to swat the reaching hand away. The burn is ignored and over the desk they go, snatching up the keys. Gregory yelps, loudly, it’s unusual to hear him sound so desperate, so unknowing of the situation. Usually he has the upper hand.

He’s jabbering, “I – give those here!” And flustered. The old mouse is following, scowling vehemently, “Those aren’t for playing around with, sir, so you just –“

It could’ve happened. Gregory could have had a fist directly into the forehead, but something holds back. Hitting him, its –

“I’m afraid it’s no use!” The old mouse warns. “What? Get back or you’ll hit me? My friend, you’re blowing this way out of proportion here. You ought to get some rest. You’ll feel better afterwards.”

Head shakes, left, tight, left. Give me one good reason I should listen to you.

“Hmm? Hm-hm-hm. My friend...there’s a lot worse people to listen to, you know.”

Hands reach past either side of the face. They’re spotted only when it’s too late. One clamps down over the mouth, the other around the neck, pulling back, losing balance, ankles scraping across the floorboards. Dragging, violently, arms flail. Fist pounds into the arm looping the neck but it’s no use. All the while, Gregory watches, his smile broadened more and more, little by little. He allows a small chortle. A familiarly sultry voice is humming by one’s ear, sending a horrible crawling sensation through the skin. _Getoffgetoff –_

“Hmm, don’t fight now; dearie-dear...you need a sample, is all!”

BITE.

Teeth sink into the pink skin. A shriek. Gregory’s eyes bulge in alarm. The keys are dropped, forgotten, and the sprinting resumes. Back, back, the only coherent thought is get back to the room. The door is found, thrown open, and slammed. The desk and chair are jammed into it, and there’s even an attempt to tug the wardrobe over to barricade it, but after a few exhausted tugs that fails. Then, it’s just a moment of standing in the middle of the room, unable to breath properly. Pulse heard in the heart and head, waiting.

Voices in the distance, muffled by wall, space and whatnot.

“Funny, how he freaked out like that.” The dry voice of the mouse woman. “He seemed like a goner. Content. Maybe it would have been easy.”

“I-I thought so too.” Gregory is drawling, casual, as if the entire thing hadn’t occurred. “Looks like he got a bit of a nasty shock back in the old hallway. Hm-hm-hm. Someone has some demons.”

Hand to fist. Fist to wall.

The sound of the hit must have reached them, as they speak no more.

 


	16. Night 16

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which it doesn't go well.

“...Isn’t anger one of the five stages? I don’t know.”

It’s impossible to tell how long that door has stayed barricaded. One can’t bring themselves to care. Another sigh is heaved, and the guest runs his hand through his hair. The candles are dim, air stuffy. Can’t remain in here forever. Maybe they’ll fade away. The original plan may be back on after all, now that the anger has faded to a dull hum.

Knock, knock, knock.

Tense. Someone at the door. The body goes still, breathing limited. As if one could pretend they weren’t there.

“Hey mister!”

...

More knocking, little ways down the door. Someone short, obviously, is rapping their hands on the wood. “Mister! You’ve been in there ages, Grandpa says you gotta eat or something. Hey Mister!”

No answer. Turn away, back to bed, sitting down. The bed - sheets crinkle, and whether the little mouse hears or not is uncertain.

“...Are you mad at me, Mister...?”

...The chair is dragged away, then the desk. The door opens and there’s James, blinking up in bewildered surprise. A hand reaches out and ruffles his hair, gently, rather weak. James hums thoughtfully to himself, glancing away.

“Lady said you really freaked out before. You see something spooky? Can I see it?” He hops up, once; his companion shakes his head, a laugh rumbling gently through the quiet, hallway air.

“Hey, I know a game, I know one!” The little mouse takes a hand and begins tugging, leading the way, “Follow me!” Following mice. Even Alice wouldn’t be so batty, but oh well. Following now, down the hall, James chortling to himself. It’s an odd combination of genuine childish happiness, and mischief. Its familiar. 

It’s a familiar walk, with the boy practically dragging him along. It hurts, a little, but not too much. Oddly enough.

James locates the door in due time, and heaves it open without hesitation. It’s dark inside. He’s given a suspicious look. The boy shrugs and ambles in, yanking his companion with him.

The door slams shut. The lights snap on. The room is fairly...empty. Barren, even, could use some floorboard polish. There’s something sitting in the corner, though, a stool...? No, a roulette board. Not a gambler, really. James is trotting over, though.

The stool-thing moves.

...er.

Walking forward, James’s hand is retaken. He peers up in surprise, “Huh? Whaddaya mean, I’m too young to gamble? You sound like Grandpa, Mister! Heh!”

“Spin me!” The little being underneath the board is smaller than the child, even, perhaps one himself. Drooling and beaming rather madly in excitement. No. This isn’t going to fly. Gripping the boy’s hand a little tighter, one shakes their head and begins tugging him away this time.

“Aaaw...” James whines, and for a moment it appears he may behave. That is, a moment.

His tail whips out and spins the board.

It doesn’t go well.

 

 

 


	17. Night 17

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Politeness only goes so far.

“So is it all in my head...?”

The incident with the Roulette Boy left a good few bruises. Gambling, as one recalled, hadn’t ever been a forte of theirs. It ended badly, with Gregory storming in to find his Grandson dancing circles around as a body lay in the corner, half-awake. A hand lifts to rub at a sore head. A lot of turns were misplaced. Just shabby game play on the brain’s part.

Roulette wasn’t kind to the unpractised. Or the new. But the little boy hadn’t been hurt, so it was fine. So the halls are being wandered again, as it seems there’s no refuge in the room. People would get in if they wished.

A tremor is lingering in the hand, a sniff building up on the nose, as if there’s damp in the air.

“Oh, do you have a cold?”

The voice doesn’t cause a jump this time. Frown, turn. _Then_ a start. The dog-like being from the bar, adorned in bandages like a mummy...and with a weapon lodged in his head. Blood dribbling down his brow, though he appears unaware.

Pale lips twist in unease. A greeting, uncertain. The dog tilts his head, shrugging, “Oh, I’ve been doing well – bad headache, is all, must be catching if you’re nose is getting running.”

Shake of the head.

“My son’s not been feeling well, either. His head’s killing him, too.” The Mummy says, one hand going to press at the temple. More blood trickles. Stomach churning, but polite concern none the less.

“You got any kids, Mister? You look the type.”

...

Politeness only goes so far.

“Oh...you don’t have to talk about it, pal. Anyway, I have some medicine here, if you’re coming down with a cold.”  Fluffy but warn paws pres a bottle to clammy hands. It’s odd, to experience kindness. Almost expect a trick. A blue bottle, pills. Mandatory, ordinary looking. How suspicious.

A nod none the less. The Mummy Papa begins ambling onward. A wave, a wave back. Then a sniff. Perhaps there’s something catching after all.

Turn.

Down the hall looms Gregory, back turned, head slinking over shoulder to watch, hands behind his back. He’s frowning, but when he’s spotted his lips tug upwards. “Hm-hm-hm.”

A scowl is given in return. Gregory pivots his body a little, “I do hope you’ll feel better soon, my friend.”

Turn away, walking back to the room now. Best to avoid Gregory –

And he’s right there. A blink and he’s appearing inches away. Back, a recoil of alarm, a sharp gasp. “Oops.” The old mouse croons. Heartbeat strums. Does he mean ill?

The mouse smiles pleasantly, “I just wanted to make sure you’re feeling all right, is all. You do look a bit peaky.”

Up, down, the hall blurs in a very vigorous nod. The mouse’s eyes narrow. “All right then...be seeing you soon.”

He’s turning away, leaving. One waits until the light of his candle is long gone around the corner.


	18. Night 18

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> We all fall down.

“The pieces are...coming back. I didn’t want to remember. I had a life, after all of that. I didn’t need to remember, but now, with nothing else left...”

The sleep had been deep and dreamless, oddly enough. The medicine lay on the desk, untouched. A sniff. Then, the covers shifting. There was a sound. The body goes still, breath held to listen. Through the hall it echoes. Mewling. Heart pulsing, the body gets to its feet and begins to the door. Sliding through, closing it as quietly as possible and then, following. Always searching. The sound leads one up the stairs to the second floor.

Uncertainty churns. There’s a door, metal, bolted. Unlike the others. An eyesore. The mangled wailing is coming from there. So, it’s approached, slowly. An ear presses against the cold metal, and listens. A slot lies in the upper half.

There’s someone muttering inside. A familiar high-pitched, yet masculine, voice. A hand knocks, hesitantly. At once, the voice comes, as if they knew someone was there all along.

“Gregory’s beginning to dislike you.” A soft, pained mewl. Then a louder one, the same that had drawn their ears here. And well, everything else. Wait.

Another mewl. “Huh. You wanna know why? Beyond me...you’d already given up by the time your head hit that pillow on the first night from what I heard.”

Where would he hear that? Who was this creature? Fingers curl around the slot and open it –

The barred window in the room – cell – doesn’t block out the lightning. In the corner lies a creature, cat-like, furless, shabby. A chain around one ankle, stitches sprawled all over the flesh. A shudder wracks the hand gripping the handle.

The cat’s head swerves. Red eyes peer through the dark. “You think I’m ugly, don’t you? Hmm.” Bitterness. Head shakes. The cat looks away.

“I don’t care.” A pause. “What? You think I dislike you for some reason? No. You haven’t done anything to me. But you’ll give up, like all the others. You aren’t even trying.”

The grip tightens.

“Lemme guess.” The cat goes on, sullen, staring at the wall. “It hurts too much. I guess it’s none of my business. I would like it if you escaped. I wanted the others to escape. The last one – I did so much to help her get out, but even when...”

The cat’s eyes close, tight. The hand leaves the slot to tug at the door, but it won’t open. The cat’s pupils swerve again, making no move to come closer or react at all.

“...I’m beyond helping. You’re not like the others. One of them pretended his soul wasn’t mangled, one knew it was and stitched all kinds of horrible emotions into it. You...you let it bleed. You didn’t want stitches. You wanted to fade, but...I bet you didn’t expect this.”

You said something about Gregory.

The cat seems to have calmed down, now that there’s a discussion going and his resentment is turned onto the mouse. Questions brew. ‘Others’. But one gets the notion not to ask. The cat’s eyes narrow in thought,

“I’ve been listening. He talked to you like all the others, but...then something in his demeanour changed. Yeah, I’d know.” The cat glances back. “Usually he tries to delay...let the soul wander for a bit...draw it out. But maybe it’ll change this time.”

Soul?

“You have no idea, do you? What do you think this place is?”

This wasn’t going to happen...

“Didn’t you want to disappear?” The cat asks, quietly.

“Oh, I understand.” A new voice croons. The cat’s eyes widen. A sharp turn reveals the old mouse himself, beaming cheerily at them from down the hall, book under one arm, reading glasses tucked innocently on his nose. The air turns cold. He shakes his head, tittering, “You wanted to disappear...but you wanted it to be _your_ way. You’re quite the paradox of control and lack of control. Hm-hm-hm-hm...!”

“Run.” The cat is hissing, “Run, now, while you have a chance!”

A turn.

Then a bolt.

 


	19. Night 19

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Resistance has a time limit.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So does 'hits' mean people are clicking on this? Huh.

“...That old mouse is right about one thing. I was willing to let go. But my way.”

Running. Ache is ignored, pain is ignored, the stitch in one’s chest, painful as it can become, is disregarded. Down the stairs, two flights, then into the corridor leading to the reception. Keys or not, that door will open. But when the corner is turned, the reception area isn’t there. Instead there’s just another hall. A laugh sounds to the left.

“Did you really think it was gonna be that easy? My friend, you really should go back to your room.”

Sprint back the way. Insane logic, perhaps, but maybe that was how it worked. Up the stairs, one, two, third floor, stumbling onto the last step and hitting the shin. A hiss of pain. Gregory’s laugh follows.

Third floor corridor, a little better lit. A heavy breath, then the jog is resumed. Each door is tried, but all of them are locked.

“...So. Late bloomer, I see.”

Cigarette smoke. A frown. The mouse woman is there at the end of the hall, her cigarette held elegantly between two fingers, eyes narrowed in a passive manner. She makes no move to hinder, or help. The run slows to a sturdy gait. She’s passed by, narrowly.

She turns her head, tracking all the while. “You’ll make it worse on yourself, you know, if you go down this hall. Trust me. I managed to keep most of my head on my shoulders, but someone else was left completely in pieces.”

Hands curl. Look away, storm on ahead.

“...Your funeral, sir.” She murmurs, almost robotically. Another corner. They were abundant. A single door lies in this hall, positioned at the very end. Approach. Grasp the handle, and it opens. The handle is...cold.

Two steps in. The walls, ceiling, they all space out into a chamber, broad and high and gleaming. The door is left open. Mirrors. Everywhere, the large kind found in dressing rooms, for weddings, funerals, and fitting areas. Everywhere, overlapping, blocking each other out. Catching one reflection in another. The sight is boggling, hard to look at them all.

Something else, too, something is off.

“I’ve been expecting you.”

A disembodied voice. Speaking oddly, with an echo to the edge. Peering around, but no one is seen.

“Come closer. Let them see your reflection.” Polite, but something in that voice...ah, yes. There’s no reflection. One has to be close enough.

Hesitation.

Something moves. A cabinet. The heart jumps, a step back is taken. The moving wood goes still. The voice from before clears. Closer. “Oh, don’t be like that. I’m merely doing a service.” Lofty.

Slowly, drawing nearer. Hundreds of others step forward, depicted on glass, so many reflections. Not one is looked at. Stare at the feet, the toes, instead. The boots had been abandoned back in the room, raincoat, too. Too late now.

“Go on and take a look. I can’t see it myself, not until you do.” The cabinet-thing drawls, softly, egging. There’s no kindness in its tone.

It’s covered in letters. The one most prominent is ‘false’.

The head rises. The others do, too. Just an outline, a shadow, navy, but greyer. No face. Unease grips at the chest.

“...You’re good at _hiding_ everything.”

Closer. Fog builds on the glass where the breath lands. Faceless head staring back. “...I can show you your true reflection, but, you don’t want that, do you?”

“...”

Back towards the door. The laughter begins, louder, louder, during the departure. The door slams shut with a snap, the handle yanking away from one’s hand. A start.

“Tough. _You’re going to look anyway_.”

It’s no fun when they don’t play along.


	20. Night 20

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which someone else helps for once.

“...This sense of foreboding is growing. In my mind, a mantra. Escape. Escape. Why is it...so familiar?”

Hands fly, body hurtles, pounding loud and fast again the door, _bang, bang, bang –_

Laughter getting louder, sharper, a rattling of hearty malice. “There’s no use in that! Just turn around! Go on, _take a peak_.” The tone turns vicious; the pounding gets louder, fists hurtling and blood drawing. Shoulder hits it next, eyes screwing shut, tight, tighter. Can’t tell if the clobbering is the body against the door or the heart against the rib!

The handle is seized, pulling now, as if enough pressure could wrench it open buts it’s no use. Desperation gives way to panic, never had one felt so awake. Head ducking, the hands search for something to grab, but finds only glass and wood, nothing that’ll come away to be used to _hit._

What to do, what to do?!

“You’re going to look sooner or later.” The voice breathes, “It’s no use.” No use, those words are hated, no use. Sick of helplessness. Not this time. Not this time.

_Cowering in the corner, whimpering, waiting. The eye in the glass, watching, hateful, a pair of wide eyes stare back as it grows closer and closer – **which one is the real me?**_

Hands over ears, through floppy pale hair. No.

That couldn’t be.

Refuse. **Refuse.**

Then, a soft creak. The eyes snap open. The door is, actually, the door is opening, too. A little striped figure peers in, uncertain. “Huh?”

James.

The voice practically shrieks, “ _What are you doing-?!”_

It’s too late. The body hurtles itself through the door, slamming it shut without a look back. Then the floor is rushing up to meet the shoulder, crashing to the carpet, bones aching, breath hitching. Lying on the floor. The carpet smells like must.

“Wow, Mister, that was some jump.” James snickers, prodding one’s shoulder. “Heh! You sure showed that guy. He was all...” A pause. “Hey Mister. What’s wrong?”

A blink, “Are you crying...?”

Right. Left. Side to side. ‘No’.

Getting up, slowly, hissing as the stiff joints pull with pain. Feet soles are raw, hands bloodied. But Hair falls to hide the face, all but the lips, that try to smile reassuringly. A hand falls, gently, on the little mouse’s head again. Wordless display of affection.

Then the walking resumes, the gait more of a limp.

“H-hey Mister...are you gonna leave?”

A pause. No movement, just two figures standing in the hall, one of them as still as a statue. James lets his head fall to one side. “Why be so nice, even after I got you inta so much trouble, Mister?”

Lips part.

“...Huh? Your son? How come I haven’t seen him?”

Reasons, reasons indeed. One can’t remain here. There’s no peace, no fading away, no end to it. Kindness is too little. And there’s that foreboding, festering inside. Go downstairs, it says, go through the door. Just a few hallways.

Walking again.

“Mister...?”

Thank you. Honestly. Back down the stairs. To the lobby. James doesn’t try to get in the way. Sorry. But some people belong here, some do not. Gregory isn’t at the front desk, and they keys are hanging in plain sight. Where is he? No matter. The keys are snatched away, shoved into the door, and opened...

Then, a voice, calling. The last sentence becomes a rickety yell.

“Where did you get to? _Where have you gone, my friend?!”_

The creak the double door gives off echoes throughout the entire hotel. A distinct ‘Huh?!’ from the aforementioned keeper rings out next. _Darn it._

The door is swung aside and a figure bolts out, dank soil squishing below bare feet, kicking up dirt, the chill biting at the skin. Fog, dark blue, navy blue, grey, the colours of night drowning. The forest stretches out ahead. Running as fast as the legs will allow, and quick glance back sees the doors opening and light pouring out, flanking a big-eared silhouette.

“Come back here!”

No sir. Turn to face ahead, and run.

 


	21. Night 21

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Deja Vu

“My childhood comes in a blur. Running. Always wanting to escape. H...hiding among the tombstones....”

It’s dark. It’s cold. And it’s oh so familiar. The figure comes to a halt, just an outline in the shroud. Chest rises, hands shaking. Look left, and right, and pass by another tree. They grow sparser; the cover is fading. It appears that no one else is there, but one should know better than to assume that – Gregory _will_ be following. Just you wait.

Less trees. Darkness, fog shimmering in the air, so prominent one could touch it. The air is so cold it bites the lung. A cough.

“Come back!”

The voice is a good few meters behind, back amongst the trees, but it’s enough to send one’s legs into overdrive and soon the last of the trees are hurtling by. The ground grows desolate, bumpy and barren. Only...not for long. Something hits a speeding hip and the run falters. Crashing headlong into the dirt, it’s not hard to tell that the thing growing out of the ground is...stone.

Hands push off the ground, back upright...

Oh no.

A cemetery. The names engraved on the stone are just...scribbles. The plaques are tall. Familiar. This place, the chill, the terror simmering in the blood. Escape. Run...

Somewhere, a wolf howls.

Footsteps. A circle of candlelight coming out of the trees behind. Diving, ducking behind the nearest tombstone. The darkness will hide them, but if the light draws too near –

“Hm-hm. They always come here, you know.” Gregory says, more to himself. He brandishes the candle, oil glimmering viciously in the light, peering around the nearest headstone. His voice grows loud, calling. “Oh My friiiend?”

Shuffling back, as quietly as possible, heart pounding in the ears. Swallow.

“You can’t escape this way.” Gregory goes on, swiping his candle behind the next stone to the left. His eyes narrow, though his voice remains cheery. “Come on out. I promise, I won’t hurt a hair on your head...”

Those words.

Hands - why won’t they stop shaking? A quick dart to the tombstone behind them, another yard between the two. Gregory lifts the light, scanning the area. “Hm.”

He’s getting closer. Back, back. Foot catches on a rock, falling, the scuff rings out. Gregory hears it, his body spins around. Dive back behind the tombstone, but there’s more, curving like a hand blocking the way of a spider. Heart almost stops –

“Are you over _there_?” It’s not a question. Stepping closer, closer, back presses against the stone, curling up.

The light falls, and it burns.

“ _There_ you are.”

A hand lifts, shaking, as if to ward off a threat. Gregory is still smiling, leaning down a tad, “Oh don’t worry. I did promise not to hurt a hair on your head, didn’t I?” A blink, “Hmm? Did you say something?”

Looking down, looking away. Never again. You won’t take me back, _not again._

“What are you saying, my friend...?” Gregory drawls, confused, eyeing the corned figure down. But if he’s curious, it doesn’t last.

The hand falls. The body flops to the ground. Exhaustion wins.

 


	22. Night 22

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> That old bitch is terrifying.

“...Voices, hovering above me. I...I remember someone I... _left behind_ long ago.”

“There, there, my friend.” A hand is petting one’s forehead. Cold, gnarly, the touch is light and shallow, as is the voice. Face contorts, but the body won’t move. Not a twitch. The head turns, a little, but that’s all. Can’t move. Everything, everything is dark. _What was I doing?_

“Gregory...”

The ears sting. That voice, a new voice, oddly familiar. Rickety, old, female, aged yet powerful. A hiss. “You promised me this one would be ready _tonight_...” Directly above, they’re standing over the body, surrounding. Remain still, feign sleep, what is one to do but wait as the feeling slowly sinks back into their arms and legs...?

Gregory’s composure us waning, it’s obvious by his voice. “I – I know, Mama, but something came up, he made a run for it, but everything’s fine now...”

Head turns. The voice stop for a moment. They’re watching. The old woman scoffs, “Hah! He’s a weakling. I want his soul, and I want it now!”

“M-Mama, please, just a little while longer...”

Everything fades in, eyes open, blurry. Pink-grey, purple circles piercing through. Focusing now. Gregory and – someone else – is standing over them, wood on their back, on a table. Try to wriggle, but – oh no. Shackles, bolting down bare feet and squirming wrists. Gregory’s eyes widen, if a little, and the older woman’s scowl deepens when they see their victim is indeed awake.

“Ah, my friend.” Gregory tries to keep up the ruse, one hand coming to hover over one’s head, “No need to be alarmed, now. Just stay calm.”

Teeth snap, and the old mouse is reeling back. “Gah! Stop that, you!”

A hand seizes the jaw, nails digging in, the smell of old perfume and rotting cloth and hair. Stomach churns as the old mouse woman forces the head back to look at her, eyes an inch away. Struggling, but the shackles hold firm. “Hmmm...not rotten. The last one’s soul was too poisoned to eat, but yours... _yours_ is succulent still.”

The shackles rattle but hold firm.

Desperate. Head turns, trying to wrench away from the freezing fingers, to Gregory, watching wordlessly from behind.

“Huh? You want me to help you? My friend.” Gregory titters, and his grin is returning. “There’s no use in that. Hm-hm-hm...”

Brow furrows. Fists clenched. The old woman turns, throwing out an arm, “Now, Gregory! Begin the process!”

“Mama –“

“NOW!”

The bellow is enough to shatter anyone’s ears. The back arches, trying to throw the body off the table, but the damn restraints hold firm. Lips part, tongue ties, voice tears through loud and clear yet as silent as air.

The door opens.

“Heh-heh, then I said – huh?!”

“J-James, My Dear -!”

Head veers again. Jars. Jars everywhere, housing strange augmentations, bobbing like will o’ the whisps. Soft moaning humming below the terror like a counter-melody. The doorway lights it all up. There’s James, and the Mouse Woman. The latter is eyeing the display, half surprised, half accepting it, as if thinking: actually, this isn’t a surprise. That can’t be said for James, who stands wide-eyed.

“Mister?”

 

 

 


	23. Night 23

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which a goodbye hug is given.

“Nothing like a near-death experience...to remind you to fight.”

 “James, what did I tell you about barging in here?” Gregory says, hastily stepping between the victim and the two newcomers, “My Dear, I think it would be best if you didn’t stay around to spectate.”

“Grow a spine, Gregory.” The old woman cuffs him over the back of the head, arm reaching over the table (and thus the victim strapped to it like a pinned butterfly on a bug collection) and the crack sound throughout the whole room. The old mouse stumbles foreword. Keep struggling, keep struggling, while they’re distracted –

“It’s about time they learned the process anyway...” Her voice lightens, almost sweet, and she hoists something into view...a crooked, wooden...spectre. The word comes to the mind like a bad memory.

“What’s happening to the Mister Guy?” More squirming, hands trying to squeeze through the shackles.

“Oh, he’s uh, fine.” Gregory is saying, inching back to block the view. James leans around him, however, staring.

“Hey, Mister, what’s going on...?”

“Do it _now_ , Gregory!”

“B-but, Mama –“

All the while, the Woman is watching, and if she’s conflicted it doesn’t show. Head turns to James, the prying and struggling pausing for just a moment, and though one’s heart is hammering in their ears...

“See?” Gregory continues, in a near sing-song voice, “He says he’s fine, James, now out you go!”

“But I wanna help!” The child says, suddenly, turning to the older woman, who is smirking with such triumph it oozes into one’s skin, “Can I, can I?”

“Why can’t you be more like your Grandson, Gregory?” She snaps, turning away, “Go and get one of the soul jars.” Heart hammering, the struggling resumes, James stares at them as he trots over to the shelves.

Gregory is looking, too. The best response is to glare back. “Oh, don’t look at me like that, my friend, you brought this on yourself, after all. Hm-hm...” Son of an absolute...

“Lookit me!” James has scaled the shelves, he’s on the top one, worry strums despite everything, he shouldn’t be up there –

“J-James –“

“James!”

The shelf tips. The two old mice dive out of the way, purple eyes bulging in shock. The shelf hits the tableside, barely missing the hip; the shatter is louder than thunder. James lands beside them, jingling something.

“Heh-heh! Grandpa says, needs to wander longer!”

“James!” ‘Grandpa’ is shrieking.

Click, click, two, four times and the shackles are off. Sitting up, arms wrapping around the little mouse to hold him close for a split second, then letting go, giving a thumbs up to his bewildered little face before leaping off the table. The Woman steps aside, her frown empty and sharp, as the victim tears through the doorway and down the hall.


	24. Night 24

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Do you know my name?

“Do you know, who I am? ...Only that mirror knows. And maybe...”

Up the stairs. Something’s changing. The hotel is shifting around one’s feet, between the floorboards, the cracks in the shutters, a green hue is brewing. Pass by Mummy Papa, peering from his door in bewilderment. Duck away from Cactus Gunman, who brandishes a gun. It’s swatted aside. Third floor. The hall grows hazy, twisting out of shape, but the door at the end is reached none the less. The door is slung open...but the mirror chamber is nowhere in sight.

Instead, there is darkness. In that darkness, candles hover suspended by nothing. Walking in, one could say that they have no choice, or that this is the only choice. There is no hesitation either way...

Behind them, it could be sworn that a cat was mewling.

From all sides, the song comes. “Do you know –“

\- “Who I am?”

“They call me Judgement Boy!” Perfect unison. They appear, four of the scale-shaped men, arms hanging in impeccable balance. Gold and pink glaring through the black.

**_“Judgment!”_ **

The questions come fast, switching back and forth between grinning faces, quick, quick: “Your _child_ or your _parent_ , whose side do you take?”

“Blackcurrant jam or cheese, which one will it be?”

“Live for a loved one or die with another loved one, who would you choose?!”

“Run or fight, which one is right?!”

**D O  Y O U  K N O W – WHO AM I?**

A deeper voice cuts through before one can even think up an answer, then another falls. The rattle of chains strumming still. A giant, plated in gold, looms amidst the others. “Judgement!”

And all the others disappear. Just the gold, and the candles. The door closes behind the guest.

Judgement Gold looks down, “You are on the brink of epiphany. You are sensing your fragment memories of this place. But if you remember, the weight of freedom will plummet, and it will shatter. If you choose to leave again, you’ll cut away those memories _forever.”_

One can be free...but they’ll have to let go of a big, big part of themselves. One that...perhaps...shouldn’t have been buried. Head falls, staring down at sore, reddened toes, callous-marked hand rising, palms turning, fingers curling.

“Do you know...” Judgement Gold says, slow and steady, “Who you are?”

The mirrors appear. The light basks, reflections turning their heads to look. The Mirror Cabinet stands below the scales. Behind, the halls are coming apart. Stepping forward, both hands reach to open the doors.

They part, and the reflection looks back. A pair of purple eyes behind a floppy pale fringe.

It’s a mouse.

 

 

 


	25. Night 25

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sometimes, when you face that from which you flee, your return brings a new perspective to it.

“My departure was painful. My return will be even more so, but now, there’s a reason to stay...H-heh...I can’t believe I forgot. I’m home.”

Gone is the clammy skin and hairless toes. The mouse turns its head, left right, hands quivering. A familiar face, but years younger, many years. His hand rises to run through the straight blond hair.

All has gone still in the corridor, and all the reflections have disappeared sans this one. Looking down at that hand, it’s easy to see that grey fur has returned to it, as has a tail, and floppy ears. The weight remains, a little. But it doesn’t fester in the chest. Turning away, back down the hall, down the stars, a shake in the gait, not from fear, but something else. The last step is almost missed. Staring around, heart humming.

“James?” A voice calls.

Looking left, and right.

Down the next hall. Skidding to a stop, the mouse lifts his head again, looks behind him.

“...Dad?”

_Turning._

James is standing down the hall. His head tilts, wonder and uncertainly clouding a usually mischievous face. “Is that _you_ , Dad?”

A smile breaks onto a very, very tired face. _“James.”_

“Dad?!”

“James!”

“Dad!” And James is running forward, practically flying; the mouse falls to his knees and opens his arm. The little mouse flings himself against him, and he holds him tight, the familiar bundle of warmth, the laughter, it feels alive to hold him again. He buries his head into the boy’s floppy locks, eyes misting over, cradling him close.

“My boy.” He breathes, quietly. James ogles up at him, resting his head against his chest,

“How come you took so long, Dad?”

“H-heh...” The mouse laughs, lifting his head away so they can look at each other at little easily, “I’ve been...wandering. Got a little lost on the way.”

“That’s pretty nifty, Dad.” James tilts his head, “Are you gonna stay this time?” The slightest note of worry. The mouse plants a small kiss on the boy’s forehead.

“Course I am. Come on.”

And he stands, one hand offered. James clings to it and down the hallways they go, towards the stairs, the little mouse practically swinging from his  arm.

“Graaandpaaa...!”

Gregory paces around the lobby, muttering to himself. “Hmph! What a mess this all is. Mama won’t let me live this down for weeks and...” He turns his head, and stops.

At the staircase, looking left and right, stands...what? James hops around, peering past and waving at him, and a mouse turns his head to look. A pair of purple eyes, staring. “...”

Wh-what...?

 “H-huh...?” The sound he makes is weak.

Someone who ran away, long ago, is standing in the hall.

Slowly, the younger mouse walks to him, James clinging to his hand. The two stare at each other, the old mouse lost for words. His mind has gone blank, it seems. “Y-you...I...” He lifts a hand to his head, trying to divert his gaze. “It was _you_ the whole time, wasn’t it?! Where’d you run off to exactly?! I haven’t _seen_ you in - ”

Wordlessly, arms wrap around him. Gregory freezes in place, staring ahead through the halls of Gregory House. Then his arms go limp, too, and he returns the hug as the tension flitters away.

“I was uh, _hm_ , beginning to think you wouldn’t come back.” His gaze slid across the floor.

The other mouse draws away, and shrugs, slowly. Forgiveness may be a virtue, but it’s given gradually. “I needed some space, let’s put it that way.”

Gregory looks away. “Hm...” The mouse clears his throat, and he returns a quizzical gaze.

“It’s...good to see you. Pa.”

A pause. Then the old mouse smiles, eyes lidded once more.

“It’s good to see you too, my boy.”

James hops into his arms, the old mouse slings an arm around his shoulders, and leads the way, candle in hand.

“Now come along – there’s a new family member you ought to meet properly...Hm-hm-hm.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So. I switched to third-ish person when the identity was revealed, though I had uncertainties about it. Plot twist anyone...? If you come across this sometime, thank you for reading.


End file.
